


weakness (i feel i must finally show)

by PaleAssassin



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies), Mission: Impossible - Rogue Nation (2015)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, also there's a bath scene, but w/e, literally that's it that's the fic, what are tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 15:38:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4612149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaleAssassin/pseuds/PaleAssassin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the little things that could bring the great Ethan Hunt down, and the worst of them all was staring at him with a bomb strapped to his chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	weakness (i feel i must finally show)

**Author's Note:**

> Let's write this again, since I accidentally refreshed the page. Okay, first things first, you like Ethan/Benji? I'm hoping you do. Go follow therareshipcollectors on tumblr. My dear friend Day and I run it together. We post a lot of stuff by other people as well as our own ficlets. We also post Thomas/Gally from The Maze Runner at the moment, if that floats your boat.
> 
> With that plug over, hi, warning, /major/ spoilers for Rogue Nation. This is a rewrite of the ending. It literally spoils the whole movie. That is your only warning.
> 
> Other than that, just enjoy.

It was always the little things, with him.

He was trained that way. Every known part of body language that could give away true feelings, every nervous ticks, every flinch smothered and stored away. The mission could be compromised by the simplest twitch of an eyebrow. Stone cold and still as death, that was how the best agent survived.

Ethan Hunt was the best agent IMF had, there was no doubt, but no human could reliably push all bodily reactions away. Oh, some of his reactions were calculated--a wink to sway a skeptical receptionist, a wince forced out like he was breaking--but not all of them could be caught. It made him vulnerable, jeopardized the mission, and he _hated it_ with every spare thought that crossed through his mind. It was those moments of weakness that could bring the great Ethan Hunt down without a word.

Right now, staring at the timer strapped to Benji’s chest, one of those moments bubbled to the surface. For just an instant, barely perceivable to those who didn’t know him as well as Benji did, fear assaulted his senses, made him deaf, blind, completely unaware of anything other than the pure panic in his partner’s eyes. The timer ticked off two seconds of twitching trigger fingers before he righted himself, the hand that had been clutching Benji’s shoulder just a tad too tightly loosening, eyes jumping from place to place while he calculated this development into the plan.

It wasn’t unexpected. He had to remember that. Such a tactic had been contemplated, moulded into something he could work with. _They had planned for something like this._

The look on Benji’s face as he opened his mouth to deliver the lines straight from the wolf’s mouth made the very thought of that plan fly out the window for an instant. It’s what Benji did to him. Made him look for other ways, ways around putting his people, putting _Benji_ , in danger. He wanted, more than anything, to fix this before it got out of hand. But there was a _plan_ , and he had to finish it. _Your mission, if you choose to accept it_.

He didn’t want to accept it. The risk was too high. The gambler on his winning streak knew his luck was running dry but he didn’t know how to stop, his last game of roulette where all his chips were on black and the ball was wobbling on the edge of the red. In the span of a blink, Ethan felt his resolve crumble.

Another look at Benji hardened it again. There was still that fear, but a desperate sort of hope, as well. Not a smile twitched at the edges of his lips but he lost some of the bare despondency. What was it he had said to Ilsa? _Don’t worry about him_. Benji believed in him more than anyone he ever met. He believed Ethan had a plan. He had to stick to it and they would all get out, not unharmed, but _alive_.

One more long look filled with as much reassurance as he could manage without tipping Lane off and a gentle squeeze to Benji’s shoulder, Ethan obeyed the command to sit. He would listen to whatever filth Lane spewed, but Ethan knew. He had the upper hand. He had what Lane wanted. To get it, he would have to give Ethan what he wanted. And he wanted Benji.

“Human nature,” Benji said, eyes distant, Lane’s conduit for the time being. _Never again_. “My weapon of choice.

“From the moment I killed the young lady in the record shop, I knew you would stop at nothing to catch me.” _Damn right_. “I also knew Ilsa wouldn’t have a choice.”

A look to the woman beside him showed much the same fear and desperation that Benji held. The gun in her hand trembled as she did. She sent him a pitying, pleading look. Ethan clenched his jaw only slightly, two fingers pinching the fabric of his pants together in an effort to hold in his rage.

“Whether she broke you that night you met or she let you go, whether you let her run in Morocco, whether she went to Adley or not--” Benji paused, then, looking down at the table.

“You were certain we’d end up where we are,” Ethan finished, “right now.”

Benji’s gaze returned to him. Ethan held it. Nothing, not a bomb, not a terrorist, not the whole world, could have ripped his stare from Benji. The fingers clutching his pants loosened, ready for the endgame.

“Then again,” he said, looking straight at the camera contact forced into Benji’s eye, “so was I.”

Benji’s brow furrowed just a bit, but Ethan forced himself to ignore it. _Stick to the plan_.

“I know you, Lane. Somewhere along the line you had a crisis of faith,” _how many innocence must be sacrificed, how many lives, how many partners._ “Human life didn’t matter anymore. Or maybe it never really did. Either way, you killed too many innocent people without ever asking _who_ was giving the orders, or _why_.

“You blamed the system for what you are,” Ethan wanted to spit, to growl, to roar, but kept his voice even and his face nearest to impassive as he could, “instead of yourself. You wanted revenge, but Rome wasn’t destroyed in a day,” _not enough fire and brimstone in the world for that_. “You needed help, you needed money, a lot of it,” _Two billion and counting_ , “and you’ll stop at _nothing_ to get it.” Ethan leaned forward with his arms folded in front of him, keeping complete eye contact with the camera. “That’s how I know I’m going to put you in a box.”

A barely noticeable flinch left Benji. “Where’s the disk,” he asked, Lane’s greed bleeding through him. Benji’s desperation shown through as he enunciated each word clearly, stressed, “Where is the disk?”

Ilsa, from beside him, looked at Benji with near that same fear, clutching the gun in her hand like a lifeline. _Endgame, endgame, endgame_ , Ethan chanted in his mind. Stick to the plan. _One minute and twenty seconds._ Desperate times, desperate measures. It wasn’t a comfort.

“You like to play games?” Some of his anger began to crack his careful mask. Ethan couldn’t care. “I have a game for you.” A pen pulled from his jacket, a napkin swiped from the table, and the endgame began. Numbers memorized, codes organized in the recesses of his mind, pulled forward into a frenzied game of cat and mouse. “I’ll give you fifty million dollars to _let Benji go_ ,” _a bargain for a human life._ He raised the napkin to the camera, giving Lane a full view of exactly what he had spent critical time memorizing. He ignored the confusion on Benji and Ilsa’s faces, focusing only on the mission. Just this once, things would go according to the plan. They had to. _One minute and counting._

A few precious seconds wasted on entering the code, but Ethan knew he had Lane where he wanted him. The endgame unfolded in front of his very eyes. One foot in the fire and still two steps ahead.

“Where is the disk,” Benji’s face took on some of Lane’s distress, though not for the same reason. “Where. is. the _disk_.”

Ethan lowered his hands, eyes narrowing. _Showtime_. “You’re looking at it,” he replied, struggling to keep the smirk of his lips. “I am the disk.”

Ilsa threw him a look. He wasn’t quite sure what all it entailed, but he saw in his peripheral vision the gears beginning to turn in her head. She was calculating herself into the plan. _Good._

“I memorized it. All two-point-four billion in numbered accounts. If that vest goes off,” Benji looked down as much as he could, lips curling in dread, “you get _nothing_. Without this money, you’re nothing. Without _me_ , you’re nothing.” _Thirty seconds._

There was a pause, then. Benji’s face remained terrified, but even he was beginning to see the inner workings of the plan. Benji knew him better than anyone. He knew Ethan’s plans. There was one way and one way only, and Lane was playing right into his hands.

“Right now, you’re thinking it’s a bluff,” he said to the silence, eyes glued to the timer. _Twenty three seconds_. “I’d never let my friends die.” _Never, not as long as he had breath and his hands. Twenty two seconds._ “I couldn’t possibly have memorized the entire disk.” Ethan ripped his eyes from the timer, looking straight into the camera with all the fierce lock-jawed determination he could muster. _Nineteen seconds._ “There’s only one way to be sure.” _The gambler’s strongest bluff._ “Let Benji go.”

_Ten seconds. Nine seconds. Eight. Seven. Six._ Ethan forced his hands to the table to keep them from reaching out to Benji. Ilsa’s eyes fluttered between him and Benji, fear overriding sense for just a second. Around them, the guards--backup--steeled themselves. It was only the raw hope in Benji’s eyes that kept him stable.

_Five. Four. Three._ Ethan held Benji’s gaze. For a moment, he let himself think that his luck had finally run out. Benji’s fear became his own, and for a second, all he could think was, _I’m sorry_. He made sure to convey that with his gaze. _I’m sorry, I love you, I’m so sorry_.

_Two. One--_

Benji flinched, hands twitching towards his ears. There might not have been a sound in the world at that moment. Slow motion, full speed, greyed out, full color, it didn’t matter. It was the pause in the world before the storm fell in.

Then, the timer fell still, blinking _00:00:19_.

Benji let out a harsh breath, more like a choked sob than a gasp, and it was the best sound Ethan thought he’d ever heard, ever will here. He swallowed hard past the stone lodged in his throat, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from gasping. _Don’t rejoice. Not yet._ But he couldn’t help the blissful relief that echoed through his mind. _Minutes. Buying him minutes at a time._

Benji didn’t relay whatever order Lane gave the second after, but Ethan caught the movement of Ilsa’s “back-up” in the corner of his eye. With an apologetic look to Benji, he glanced to Ilsa. She returned his gaze with a shell-shocked expression on her pale face. “If they come one step closer, shoot me.”

To her credit, Ilsa didn't question or hesitate, moving closer to him and bringing the gun to his arm as ordered. He saw Benji's eyes widen and the other men stopped in their tracks. That was good. It meant Lane was still paying attention to his moves.

Another gasp from Benji drew his gaze. Ethan watched as he struggled to regulate his breathing, bomb still secured to his chest. “You remember I told you one day you were going to take things too far?” Even with a bomb strapped to him and half a day’s worth of being in enemy’s hands couldn’t cool his temper, Ethan thought. Benji was forever saying that, usually in regards to Ethan’s life. The coarse laugh that threatened to leave his dry throat had to be swallowed back. “This is me speaking, by the way, it’s not him.”

Thousands of replies came to mind ( _as if I had any doubt, this won’t be the last time either, I love you too)_ and not one was brought to his tongue. He may be in prime striking distance, but the game was still in full swing, and Ethan had all his chips on the unlucky color of the night. Good gamblers knew this was the time to fold. The best knew this was the time to play his cards to the chest.

Ethan leaned forward again, Ilsa’s gun still pressed against his arm. He stared straight at the camera in Benji’s eye, a hairline twitch in his trigger fingers from holding himself back from ripping the damn thing out. “The only way this ends is you and me, Lane," he spat, emotions fraying in a delicate balance of pure emotion and facade, “face to face. Only this time I won’t be locked in a glass box. You want your money? The Bone Doctor’s gonna _beat it out of me_.” Cutlery rattled on the table as he slammed his hands against it. _Calculated reactions, making him seem out of control, too wild, a rogue operative begging for his last mission to end in fire._ “Now _let. Benji. **go**._ ”

Another pause while the world held it’s breath. There was no clinking of glass, no murmured chatter, no wind, no water, nothing. Then, a slow exhale from Benji, and his fingers twitched to the number pad on the timer. _One, three, nine, five, nine, four, one, five, three, nine, four, one._ A beep and the bomb disarmed, quiet, still, utterly useless to Lane. Ethan traced every letter with his eyes while Benji ripped the ear wig out, tore the contact from his eye. _Disarmed_.

Lane had programmed it to allow him to disarm it. _There was something he was missing._ Or maybe it had been part of the plan all along. _When Lane has what he wants, I kill you and Benji. If not, everyone dies._ He had his endgame. Give him the disk and Ilsa shot them both. Don’t give him the disk and a city block became charred bones and smoke. Why put a code to disarm the bomb if his endgame was to kill them either way? Unless he planned for something like this. Unless this was his objective. Get Ethan Hunt to save his friends so he’d have him all to himself.

Benji had struggled out of the bomb jacket in the time it took Ethan to attempt to dissect Lane’s intention. He wrapped the inside of the jacket carefully over the vest, hiding the explosives and the timer from plain view. From his place watching Lane’s cronies, Ethan could see the blood on his red jacket, the bruises hidden under a shirt that rode up easily, and he forced himself to stay still. Instead, he held out a burner phone to a rising Benji, who took hold of it and let their fingers brush together with the slightest graze.

“Go,” Ethan said, throwing every inch of his own anxiety and dread filter through his eyes, cracking his careful mask even more. So much could be said with simple eye contact and they had mastered it long ago. Everything Ethan wanted to say was there ( _I’m sorry, it’s almost over, I love you_ ), replied to by Benji’s turmoil ( _What are you doing this time Ethan, what mess have you created, how am I going to fix it_ ).

“Ethan--”

“Brandt and Luther are waiting,” he interrupted. _There’s a plan. Stick to the mission. Choose to accept_. “Go.”

Message received, Benji gave him a barely discernible nod, managing to convey _You better be fucking alive the next time I see you_ in a single, half-hearted glare before he turned heel and darted past the goons. Ethan didn’t watch him retreat. He kept his eyes glued to Lane’s lackeys, circling like hyenas. He had no doubt that the rush for the kill would come any moment. He had to be ready.

He turned his eyes to Ilsa, who met his gaze with a steadfastness that rivaled the utter terror that had split her face not a minute before. Her resolve had strengthened, become a conduit for her rage at the injustice of it all. The gun still pressed to his arm did not waver. Ethan raised his eyebrow carefully. _You in?_

She didn’t smile. Her lips quirked, eyes widening in a show of both trust and acceptance, but she didn’t smile at him. He held her stare. The calm eye of the storm. _Ready, set--_

A gunshot rang out into the stale air. Hyenas cackling on the sidelines darted for the kill. The gambler placed his bet. The endgame began.

What followed was, for Ethan, countless hours of blind running, taking each and every curve with deaf ears and sightless eyes. It couldn’t have been a full hour, probably not even half that, but the entire flight felt endless. Every bruise, every cut, every bullet, spiraling until the cusp, the fall from grace. Shattered glass, a slide, and a tumble down the rabbit hole. His glass-bitten shoulder slammed against concrete.

Pain stabbed through every inch of his skin, from the bullet stuck fast in his thigh to the three fingers he had broken somewhere along the way. Every breath brought the pain to a crushing crescendo. _Just a moment, one breath, two_. He leaned on his side, digging his now-injured shoulder into the floor, watching a wolf prowl from above him. A perfectly placed manhole, close enough that Ethan could slide to it without any of the wildly-fired bullets hitting him, was the only source of light that Ethan could see, and the wolf’s shadow disrupted it even as he bounded down,  the muzzle of a silenced gun steadily pointed in his direction.

Solomon Lane seemed unaffected by any force of nature. He stood motionless in front of Ethan, face impassive save for the fury tensing the lines of his face. His gun didn’t waver. Neither did Ethan.

“Face to face,” Lane observed. His voice was monotone, a clear effort to remain impassive. “Just as you wished, Ethan.”

He stalked forward, every inch the hunter stalking his downed prey, and right then, Ethan smiled. _That’s how I know I’m going to put you in a box_ ran through his mind the split second before a wall of glass came between the muzzle of Lane’s gun and the space between Ethan’s eyes. He turned and shot square center at Brandt, the bullet ricocheting back towards him. Brandt didn’t flinch. Luther slid the last panel into place and Lane repeated his actions. _Fruitless. Useless._ Bullet casings spat back.

Ethan struggled to a standing position, leaning most of his weight on his one good leg. There was something ultimately satisfying about the echo of it all. Lane started this all by trapping Ethan Hunt in a box and giving him a face to put a name to. _Only this time,_ I _won’t be locked in a glass box_.

Benji emerged from the shadows next, despondent but whole. Ethan caught his eye the instant Lane saw him, and even every bullet deflected, every kick Lane landed to the glass where his once-prey stood, could not make Benji flinch. He was just as bruised, beaten, tired as the rest of them, yet still he did not flinch. A smile cracked at the edges of Ethan’s lips that grew when an exhausted one was returned.

With more effort than he would have liked, Ethan took two neat steps forward, effectively claiming Lane’s attention once more. As soon as Lane regarded him, Ethan saw Benji visibly deflate. His fingers twitched with the effort to hold himself back from checking on his partner.

He felt more than saw Ilsa emerge from the shadows behind him. Her breathing was off, choked in the way that indicated injury, so when the barest amount of her weight leaned against his back, Ethan didn’t move. One hand clutched on his leg, holding in as much blood as possible, every bone in his body aching, his team war-weary and crippled, and triumph still overtook it all.

“It hurts, I know,” he said, a smirk on his lips that pulled at the sores. Lane growled low in his throat.

Directing his voice to his team, Ethan said, “Gentlemen, this is Solomon Lane,” then, dropping his smirk, “Mr. Lane, meet the IMF.” _This is the team that brought you down_.

Lane’s only reaction was a slight tilt of his head. Ethan couldn’t find it in himself to care. Finally, after years of chasing the Syndicate, six _months_ on the heels of its leader, putting his team, his friends, his _partner_ , at risk, it all paid off. Solomon Lane stood unresponsive in a clear cage. The Syndicate would crumble. _They were free_.

He nodded to Benji, then, though his eyes stayed on Lane. A white cloud billowed up, surrounding Lane, swallowing him in mist. It was only then that Ethan saw any emotion besides rage stricken his face, white fog swallowing the fear he finally displayed as he brought his gun up one last time. One bullet, straight between Ethan’s eyes. He didn’t flinch. Two bullets, three, four, five. Every last bullet Lane had, he emptied there. Even when the mist dragged him in, Lane’s fists pounded against the glass. He stayed as still as possible, upright, unafraid, unresponsive, until, at last, the white cloud devoured Solomon Lane.

Ethan only watched the cloud long enough to determine Lane fully inert before he nodded to Benji once more. From the corner of his eye, he saw his partner hesitate, two fingers reaching out for him before they pulled back. The grip he had on his thigh loosened, fingers twitching back towards Benji. Ethan clutched his thigh harder. _Not yet_ , he wanted to say, _only a little longer, and then we can stop_.

Benji nodded once, barely discernible, and turned to flick the lights on. The parking garage flickered into view as the other agents scattered. There were still preparations to be made, contacts to bribe, a director of the CIA to inform. It wasn’t the end of the mission, but it was the end of the nightmare.

That awkward sort of relief had Ethan stumbling forward, no longer held up by expectations and false reassurances. His bloodstained hands met the glass where Lane had slammed his fists into. There were fissures against his forehead. Bullet casings were smashed together in the indent. Bullet casings that could’ve been in his skull, in Ilsa’s, in Brandt’s, Luther’s, _Benji’s_. The last of his energy surged into his wrists and he _pushed_ \--

The box smashed to the ground with a dull _thud_ that sounded too much like victory to savor.

He breathed in deeply, once, twice. There was a dull ache in his chest. _Cracked ribs, possibly broken_. His hands hung limply at his side. _Three fingers broken, two sprained_. The effort to stand was becoming too much to bear. _Bullet wound in thigh, possible fracture in ankle_ \--

Ilsa’s hand landed on his shoulder. The weight of it was startling. He hadn’t even heard her move. She squeezed it once, a simple question. _Are you okay?_

“Fine,” he reassured shortly, because he _was_. Mostly. He just needed to find Benji. Then, they could collapse and not move for at least eight hours.

Her hand fell away as he staggered to the side, only to almost fall into Benji. The other man’s hands wrapped around his arms, keeping him upright by sheer force of will. Another set of hands on his back, small and birdlike. Ilsa, supporting him while Benji dragged him over to a bench he hadn’t noticed before. Had there been a bench there this whole time?

Ilsa’s hands left him as soon as they had reached the bench, allowing Ethan to unceremoniously fall against the cold metal. He slumped over, Benji settling in on his right, grip sliding up to his shoulder so that he had his arm around Ethan. Ilsa gave him a smile.

“Perfectly alright, huh?” she said without much ire. Ethan gave her a weak smile back. The adrenaline that had been holding back much of the pain was wearing off fast now that Lane was subdued. From the look on Benji’s face, he was thinking the same thing. Lips curled, eyebrows pushed together, his grip locked on Ethan’s shoulder like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Using his one good arm, Ethan supported Benji at his waist.

When he looked back at Ilsa, she had a knowing smile on her face. Her eyes darted to his hand on Benji’s side, then back up to his face. She raised her eyebrow. He winked back.

“I’ll leave you boys to it, then,” she said, waving her fingers at them delicately while she turned. She walked slowly, too beaten down to really bounce off, but Ethan thought she would if she could.

Her footsteps faded quickly, leaving silence in their wake. It was a comforting silence, the kind that followed after all the action had gone down and everything was being handled. Benji was there, held tight against him, breathing in his ear. Ethan let his head fall down against Benji’s shoulder, exhausted. _They were alive._

“Not yet, Ethan,” Benji murmured, a pair of lips pressing gently against his hair. “We still have to bring that bastard in.”

“Let Brandt handle it,” Ethan grumbled back. He sat back up anyway, giving Benji’s hip a gentle squeeze. Benji gave his shoulder one in return, extracting himself from Ethan’s arms to fulfil his last part in the plan, leaving Ethan alone on the bench. Where he was supposed to stay, apparently, if Luther and Brandt’s shouts any time he so much as shifted forward were an indicator. He couldn’t complain. He didn’t think, after they were completely set up, that he _could_ move. Instead, he just sat back, listened to the sound of Benji and Brandt arguing, and closed his eyes.

_Mission accomplished._

* * *

 

It was only later, much later, after they snuck Lane’s glass cage into an airport where Director Hunley waited, after receiving orders to _rest up and wait for the next flight_ , after dragging their exhausted bodies to the hotel Hunley had provided for them, that Ethan was finally able to relax. All their injuries had been attended to by someone the CIA director had provided ( _two cracked ribs, three broken fingers, sprained ankle, dislocated shoulder, multiple lacerations, bullet dug out of his thigh, and a shard of glass pulled carefully out of his lower back_ ), fake names given out, cover stories created. Everything was prepared. Then, at long last, with Ilsa on the run and Brandt and Luther in the room adjacent to theirs, Ethan could sit on the bed with his arms wrapped around Benji and not feel like he had to let go, to finish the mission. The mission was over. They were alive. They were _safe_.

Six months of built up tension, not knowing how Benji was doing, not being able to _see_ him, especially with his kidnapping, bubbled over the second they closed their door on Luther and Brandt’s smug faces. There may have been a slight incident of tackling, quickly followed by a scolding as stitches were strained and collapses occurred. Mainly, Ethan tried to hug Benji with a bit too much enthusiasm and toppled the both of them over. That instigated a five minute rant from Benji about _unnecessary risks_ and _you were half dead while they stitched you up_ and _you’re too reckless Ethan_ before Ethan simply kissed him once and picked them both up to curl up on the bed around him.

There was no complaint from his partner, then. Benji simply allowed Ethan to curl his body around the smaller man’s, head tucked close enough to see each other’s faces, arms secured around bodies. At that moment, nothing could have separated them. The storm had blown over. The gambler folded. Now, they could simply be.

“Ethan,” Benji whispered. There was a poke at his side. He ignored it with a practiced ease, curling tighter around his partner. He may have grunted. He would neither confirm nor deny.

Benji shifted in his arms, fingers trailing lightly down his side. They met the raised section of his back where twelve stitches kept his skin together. “Ethan,” he said, louder this time. He made a hushing noise in response.

A sigh brushed against his throat, followed quickly by Benji extracting himself from Ethan’s arms, using his partner’s current half-asleep state to escape the confines of _snuggly Ethan_ , as Benji often called it. A little noise of protest left his throat, cut off by the fingers that ran through his hair a second later. They were gentle against his scalp, probing bumps that _were not in any way dangerous Benji the doctor’s ensured it_. The low chuckle he got in return was well worth whatever garbled sounds escaped his lips.

“Come on,” Benji said from above him, fingers still in his hair. “You’re exhausted, _I’m_ exhausted, but we smell like we’ve been on a stake out for two days straight. Bath. Now.”

“Not supposed to get my stitches wet yet,” he slurred back. He definitely ignored the snort he got in return.

“Like that’s ever stopped you before,” Benji retorted, “I’d drag you to the bathroom right now if I thought I could do it without bursting your stitches.”

Ethan grumbled a noiseless reply, but, with a grunt, shifted upwards. The motion pulled at his chest, a spike of pain from the fractured ribs shooting through to his core. He took a deep breath, then another, and another, each one pulling his chest. He felt Benji’s hands, one on his back and another on his shoulder, supporting, practically holding him up as he fought to breathe normally through the pain. They trembled against the cloth of his shirt.

Another deep breath and he felt stable enough to turn around, finally facing his partner completely. Benji had dark bags under his eyes and a grimace on his bitten lips, looking all the more tired and beaten down than Ethan could ever remember. When he met Ethan’s eyes, a wane smile pulled at his lips. “Alright?”

The way he said it sounded more like a hope than a question, so he nodded, if only to see the poorly-hidden relief sweep across his partner’s face. Benji always worried too much. Hell, he was _perpetually_ worried. There were permanent wrinkles in between his eyebrows, almost assuredly caused by none other than Ethan Hunt.

Ethan reached up, pressing the tip of his thumb against those wrinkles. The rest of his hand practically cradled Benji’s cheek as he smoothed the pad of his thumb there, ironing the worry lines out with deft fingertips. Benji leaned into the touch for only a moment, eyes practically boring into his. So many questions there, _are you sure you’re alright, you aren’t going to leave again are you, is it really all over_. He did his best to assuage them, staring calmly right back. _I’m fine, really, I won’t leave again anytime soon, it is over, it really is, we’re free_.

Benji placed his hand lightly over Ethan’s, drawing it away from his face. The worry lines were less prominent, adding a gentler, younger quality to his partner. It was that face that made him allow Benji to pull him to his feet, both hands finding his. He led them to the bathroom, only letting go long enough to turn the faucet of the tub on and test the water. Ethan wanted to argue, because he really wasn’t supposed to let his stitches get wet at all, let alone soak them. But he kept his mouth shut, opting instead to strip and absentmindedly fold them, placing them on the countertop behind him. He lowered himself carefully into the slowly filling tub as Benji did the same.

Benji settled against him just as the water had filled the tub. He was cautious, barely resting any of his weight on Ethan’s chest, forever vigilant of his ribs. Right about then, Ethan couldn’t care if his ribs protested all night. He wrapped his arm around his partner’s waist and practically hauled him up so that Benji’s back laid against his chest. His head was almost tucked under Ethan’s chin, legs stretched out between both of his. Benji tensed, holding himself as still as possible. The water splashed against the sides, breaking over the lip of the tub.

“Ethan Hunt, secret cuddle monster,” Benji grumbled, though the light kiss to his neck belayed any thought of a complaint. “If only our enemies could see you now.”

“They would be completely jealous,” Ethan finished for him, squeezing his waist lightly. There were bruises where the vest had been strapped to his chest and a few minor abrasions, nothing needing immediate attention but no less painful. Even a delicate brush against the worst of them could cause pain.

Benji huffed out a laugh, just as Ethan had planned, and relaxed against him. “Jealous, right,” he snorted. “Then _they_ would have to put up with your stupid stunts. It isn’t good for my heart, you galavanting off like you’re the only one who can save the day.”

Ethan sighed, letting his forehead fall onto the top of his partner’s head. “I finally took it too far?” he asked, his heart skipping a beat. Benji was forever saying that. _One day, Ethan Hunt, you’re going to take it too far_. There was a sense of trepidation to the phrase. He’d take things pretty far, yeah, if it meant saving a country, saving a life. If he took things too far, whatever that entailed, he didn’t know what Benji would do.

He must have tensed up, because in the span of his thoughts, Benji had turned in his arms so that his head rested against Ethan’s collarbone. “Almost, you daft man,” he whispered there. “You damn near got yourself killed. Again.”

Ethan tightened his hold on his partner. “I’m pretty good at that, yeah,” he admitted sheepishly.

The huff of a laugh he got in return brought a genuine smile to his face. “Good at it, he says,” Benji scoffed. “You’re _good_ at fighting. You’re _good_ at saving the day. You’re fan-bloody- _tastic_ at finding ways for people to murder you.”

“That’s why I have you,” Ethan replied, pressing a kiss to Benji’s hair. “You’re the best at getting me away from the people trying to kill me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Benji grunted. He pulled away slowly, managing to sit up close enough that Ethan could see the worry lines beginning to grow back onto his forehead. “Just--promise me you won’t do anything like that again?”

Ethan tilted his head. “Like what?”

“Throw yourself into the fire for me.”

He didn’t laugh, but it was a near thing. Benji knew, no matter how many times he asked, that Ethan would never just let him go. Whether it was into enemy hands or deaths grip, Ethan Hunt didn’t let go of what he cared about without a fight. “You know the answer to that, Benji.”

Benji’s head fell back onto his chest with a gentle _thump_. “Well, it was worth a try,” he mumbled.

His head lifted back up a second later with a sigh. “We’ve been in here too long,” he said, rising from the water. “Your stitches will get infected at this rate.”

“And whose fault is that?” Ethan said, not expecting an answer. He climbed out of the tub warily behind his partner, acutely aware of each muscle in his body. The steam had helped his lungs while sitting in the warm water, but every move reminded him exactly what he’d been through in the past twenty-four hours.

They dried off quickly and threw on some of their clothes. Ethan didn’t bother putting his shirt back on, the pain in his chest warding off any attempt at it for the night. Instead, he just pulled back the comforters on the bed and stuck himself under them, dragging Benji down with him. The other man went with no complaints, settling down easily with his body curled towards Ethan’s. They faced each other, Ethan’s arms wrapped around Benji’s, Benji’s arms around him, reminding each other that they were _here_ , _alive_ , _safe_ , _together_.

It was always like that after a particularly hard mission. Usually, they either slept back-to-back or with Ethan wrapped completely around Benji. Even when they slept with backs towards each other, it was normal for them to wake up with Benji’s back against Ethan, Ethan’s arms wrapped around his partner’s middle. But missions like these, when everything went to shit and they were just happy to be alive at the end of the day, they had to see each others faces. In the middle of the night, waking up after images of death and destruction, it was sometimes only the other’s face keeping them together.

The worry lines were back on Benji’s face, and Ethan used his thumb to smooth them out again. “No more missions for awhile, hun?” he remarked. He didn’t need an answer, not really. Once they were home, it was back to the apartment they shared, domesticity leaking into their daily routine. They both lived for those times.

“If I had my way, no more missions _ever_ ,” Benji replied, scooting closer to Ethan. “But alas, we have our duties.” A stern look was sent his way. “But not until your ribs are healed, at least. For God’s sake, take some time for yourself for once.”

A chuckle pushed past the sudden well of emotion that rose in his throat. Ethan pressed another kiss to Benji’s forehead, then one to his lips. “As long as you’ll be there to take care of me.”

The stern look was replaced with a gentle smile, and in that moment, Benji gave him all he ever wanted. “Always.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This took me a week to write. I just moved into my dorm room for my freshman year at college today. Literally around eight hours ago. Hopefully, the next fic (which I have already started writing, it'll be the movie in Benji's pov) will be up soon. I don't know though. I start classes on Monday so I'm not sure how much time I'll actually /have/. 
> 
> Again, quick plug, go follow therareshipcollectors on tumblr if you haven't already. We've got our own ficlets, we accept prompts and requests, and we try to post as much of other peoples work as we can find. You can also submit your own art. 
> 
> Other than that, just leave a kudo and/or a comment if you liked it. Seriously, I read every comment and squeal inside like a little girl. They make your writers happy. 
> 
> And, well... that's all she wrote.


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